although you sit in a room that is gray, except for the silver of the straw-paper, and pick at your pale white gown; or lift one of the green beads of your necklace, to let it fall; or gaze at your green fan printed with the red branches of a red willow; or, with one finger, move the leaf in the bowl-- the leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia beside you... what is all this? i know how furiously your heart is beating.

gray room, wallace stevens